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' 'Tis better to have loved and lost 

Than never to have loved at all." 

These words of Tennyson come to mind as I take 
my pen to write a tribute to the memory of my three 
dear brothers. After reading the little book "From One 
Generation to Another," we were impressed with the in- 
completeness of the family history. We felt that more 
ought to have been said about our brothers John and 
Henry. While these thoughts were in mind, brother 
Elam, after a brief illness, joined these brothers in our 
Father's house of many mansions. The shock of his 
sudden death, the consequent loneliness, the thought 
that I was the last one left of a large family, seemed to 
so paralyze my energies that I felt I could do nothing 
more. But the desire to perpetuate the memory of these 
dear brothers has led me to undertake this "labor of 
love." It is difficult to convey in words our true feelings, 
and therefore I fear my endeavor will be unsatisfactory 
and inadequate. 



' Ou<2*+<& /t/f-K^ yyc&ua^K*? 



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ijenrg Arrljer IGangbon 

Henry, our youngest brother, was a lovable child, 
sweet and gentle, quiet in his tastes, preferring to play 
with little girls, dolls and toys, rather than to engage in 
the noisy games of boys. In childhood he was timid and 
dependent, not indicating the strong, brave nature that 
characterized his manhood. He was fond of home and 
home pursuits ; the innocent pleasures of country life 
had a charm for him. I remember one time when from 
home on a visit the funny little letters he wrote me 
about the dogs, the horses, and home affairs. He grew 
tall, slender and delicate looking, fair with light hair 
and clear blue eyes like our Mother's and a pleasing ex- 
pression of countenance that he retained through life. 

When old enough he was sent to the district school. 
After finishing here he went to an "academy for boys" 
in Cincinnati. Completing the course of study there he 
entered "Farmer's College," on College Hill, a suburb 
of Cincinnati. He early showed a predilection for the 
science of medicine. Our Mother endeavored to dissuade 
him from choosing the profession, fearing his physical 
strength would not be equal to the hardships of a phy- 
sician's life. But her objections gave way when she saw 
he had chosen because of his love for the profession. He 
began his medical studies in the office of Doctors Elstun 
and Nixon, at Tusculum (Columbia). He entered Mi- 
ami Medical College in Cincinnati, attending the course 
of lectures, etc., graduating with honors, a position 



being given him with the faculty as "Demonstrator of 
Anatomy." 

On the breaking out of the Civil War he endeavored 
to get a position as surgeon in the army. The Board of 
Medical Examiners was located at Columbus. When a call 
was made for surgeons brother Henry went to Columbus 
to be examined with other applicants. His youthful ap- 
pearance, however, was against him. The Board refused 
to examine him and he came home much chagrined that 
not even a chance was given him. In the course of a few 
months another call was made for surgeons, and Henry 
again went to Columbus, and this time was more success- 
ful. Dr. John Murphy of the Miami Medical College 
was one of the examiners and when some one made an 
allusion to the youth of the applicant. Dr. Murphy re- 
marked, "I know him. Give him a trial." The youthful 
applicant surprised some of the members of the Board 
with his knowledge. The examinations were very strict, 
but there was not a question, written or oral, that he was 
unable to answer correctly. He was given the necessary 
credentials and returned this time well satisfied over the 
outcome. 

I do not remember how it came about, but Henry 
went out first as surgeon to Foster's Battery from Wis- 
consin. He writes from Lexington, Kentucky, April 10, 
1862, "They are now on their way to eastern Tennessee 
by way of Cumberland Gap. The 'Gap' is in possession 
of the rebels and forms a stronghold. If they do not 
'evacuate' it will be necessary to climb the mountains 
and get at their rear. There are four Regiments and a 
Battery." Later on Henry had charge of two Batteries, 
the First Wisconsin and the Ninth Ohio. I do not find 



the letter giving the account, but we know the rebels 
"evacuated" and the Union troops took possession of the 
Gap and were for a time cut off from all communication. 

Meanwhile there was a call for more soldiers and 
the 79th Ohio Volunteer Infantry was formed at Camp 
Dennison, Dr. W. P. Elstun, Surgeon ; Dr. H. A. Lang- 
don, First Assistant Surgeon. 1 remember well the day 
the Regiment left the Camp for the seat of war. Cam]) 
Dennison was a few miles above Mil ford on the Little 
Miami Railroad, and soldiers were taken over this road 
to Cincinnati. I saw Henry in the cab with the engineer 
as they passed our house. He came out in the evening for 
his horse and accoutrements. He left next morning to 
join his Regiment. It was a sad parting: these were 
troublous times. He remained with the 79th O. V. I. 
until the end of the war in 1865. Dr. Elstun, after a 
few months, resigned his position, and brother Henry 
was promoted to his position as Surgeon, and a little 
later made Brigade Surgeon. He was with the Army 
at Atlanta when it was besieged and taken, and with 
Sherman "on the march to the sea" at the taking of 
Savannah. 

The last of the war letters in my possession is dated 
at Raleigh, N. C, April 29, 1865. Such a happy letter! 
The war was ended and peace declared, and the army 
to start homeward, on to Richmond and thence to Wash- 
ington. At the close of the war the 20th Army Corps 
was commanded by Major-General J. A. Mower, 3d 
Division by Brevet Major-General \Y. T. Ward, 1st Bri- 
gade, including the 79th O. V. I. and four other Regi- 
ments, by Colonel H. Case. As a matter of history we 
know that General Lee surrendered to General Grant on 



the 9th of April, 1865; the formal surrender of General 
Johnston to General Sherman occurred on the 18th; the 
Peace "Jubilee" on the 14th of April ; the assassination 
of President Lincoln on the evening of the 14th; and the 
Grand Review of the Armies at Washington before Pres- 
ident Johnson and his Cabinet on May 23 and 24, 1865. 

I quote the following from the Personal Memoirs 
of General Sherman : "General Meade commanded the 
Army of the Potomac, the review on Tuesday, the 23d; 
General Sherman's Army on Wednesday, the 24th." He 
writes : "I took my post on the left of the President, 
and for six hours and a half stood while the army passed 
in the order of the Fifteenth, Seventeenth, Twentieth and 
Fourteenth Corps. It was in my judgment the most 
magnificent army in existence, sixty-five thousand men 
in splendid physique, who had just completed a march 
of nearly two thousand miles in a hostile country, in good 
drill, with tattered and bullet-riven flags, festooned with 
flowers — for six hours and a half that strong tread of 
the Army of the West resounded along Pennsylvania 
Avenue." 

As I write this I love to think that brother Henry 
was there enjoying the glory of victory after the war. 
On the disbanding of the armies Henry returned home, 
probably the last of May. I have no date. During the 
summer or autumn he formed a partnership with Dr. 
Elstun and commenced the practice of medicine at Co- 
lumbia. He was a successful doctor and speedily rose 
in his profession. 

After his marriage he bought Dr. Elstun's home and 
also his interest in the practice, Dr. Elstun retiring to 
his farm at the mouth of the Little Miami River. To 

10 



have a home of his own after years of wandering was 
happiness itself. He was devoted to his family, almost 
idolized the two little daughters. But this happiness 
was as brief as it was beautiful. Only a few years 
passed before crushing sorrows came in quick succession. 
In four months the wife, one of the twin babies and the 
two little girls passed out from the home never to return. 
The night the last daughter passed away despair with 
raven wings settled on the home. I shall never forget 
the scene as I entered the room. — the child lying on the 
operating table where an effort had been made to relieve 
her sufferings by an operation for tracheotomy, the doc- 
tors standing around, my brother sitting by the fire 
bowed down with grief. I put my arms around him and 
pressed my lips to his hair — I could not say a word. I 
was dumb before such grief. I am sure the Savior looked 
down with pitying eyes on the sad scene. The cruel 
questions would come, Why were these things permitted? 
Why did my brother, so good and kind, have to suffer 
such anguish? But these questions and many others can 
only be answered at the throne of God. Leaden-footed 
passed the days, weeks and months, that to my brother 
seemed like ages. He remarked one day. "I have lived 
longer than Father." and it was true. 

"We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial." 

In time hope returned, the clouds drifted away, the 
skies were blue, and my brother bravely took up the 
tangled and broken threads to begin life anew. He re- 
established the home with a loving companion and little 
Willie, the only child left to him: He was young (only 

11 



thirty-five) and it seemed as though years of happiness 
were in store for him. But it was not to be. The poor, 
tired, overstrained brain gave way in a ruptured blood 
vessel; after weeks of suffering he peacefully passed 
away. I do not know whether it is an established scien- 
tific fact or not, but a physician told me that a transition 
from excessive grief to great happiness was sometimes 
fatal to the brain. 

Brother Henry was indeed the "beloved physician." 
His funeral was attended by all ranks of society, the 
high and the low, the rich and the poor. The funeral 
services were conducted by Rev. I. D. Jones, pastor of 
the Congregational Church of which brother Henry was 
a member. In his discourse Mr. Jones said, "One Sunday 
a young man came into church whose appearance and 
attention to the services attracted me. On enquiring who 
he was I was told that it was Dr. Langdon, and after- 
wards for a time I was a member of his family and 
learned to know and love him." 

While reviewing the life of brother Henry I am im- 
pressed with the thought that there is no life so full of 
self-sacrifice, so vicarious — the giving of one's self for 
another — as is found in the medical profession. In 
"Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush" we have the pathetic 
story of the old doctor, but we need not go to fiction for 
examples, we have them among our friends and in our 
homes. 



12 



Resolutions passed by the Miami Medical Society 
on the death of Dr. Henry A. Langdon : 

Whereas, Our friend and professional brother, 
Henry Archer Langdon, has been removed from our 
midst by the hand of death, therefore be it 

Resolved, The Miami Medical Society has lost in 
our deceased friend one of its most useful and dis- 
tinguished members and the medical profession of Cin- 
cinnati one of its brightest ornaments. 

Resolved, That in his sincere sympathy with suffer- 
ing, in his thorough scientific and medical knowledge, 
and in the calm, strong spirit which at all times impelled 
him fearlessly to do his duty, Dr. Langdon possessed in 
a most uncommon degree those high qualities which make 
a physician invaluable to the community. 

Resolved, That to the community which will vainly 
seek to replace him, to the friends and relatives who have 
lost him, we tender our heartfelt sympathy and mingle 
our regrets with theirs. 



W. W. Highland, M. D., President. 
George Connor, M. D., Secretary. 



13 





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3o X\\t ifflemnrg of mij Hro% r 
Johtt pijflps IGantj&mt 

"Blessed is the memory of the just." 

My acquaintance with brother John began very early 
in life. I suppose I had expressed a wish to hold the 
new baby. I was a very little girl sitting in a child's 
chair. The nurse put a bundle of flannel in my arms 
out of which peeped a pair of bright eyes. The vision 
passes and I see a child in a high chair at the table so 
very particular as to the way his knife and fork are 
placed on the table. And then came the starting to 
school for the first time, the schoolhouse was some dis- 
tance from our home. We took our dinner and remained 
all day. It was very tiresome, especially for little chil- 
dren. Some teachers were strict and required them to 
sit with folded arms to keep the little hands from mis- 
chief. No wonder the children often got a dislike for 
school, so different then from the present system of 
kindergarten, where instruction and pleasure are judi- 
ciously combined. 

After going through the course of study at the dis- 
trict school John went to Woodward College, Cincinnati. 
His health was never good while he was attending school, 
the close confinement did not agree with him and I think 
he was compelled to leave college before he had finished 
the course. However, brother John was a student all 
his life, gathering knowledge from various sources, a 

17 



great reader, a deep thinker, a close observer, original 
in his ideas. Before accepting an opinion or belief, he 
must be fully satisfied of its correctness and truth, and 
when satisfied that he was right he could stand alone, 
for he had the courage of his convictions. Some writer 
has expressed this thought that what we now need is 
power that shall make us daring enough to act out all 
we have seen in vision, all we have learnt in principle 
from Jesus Christ. It seems to me that brother John had 
these qualities in an eminent degree. He was fearless 
in adherence to truth, and in his daily life, in business, 
in his intercourse with men he was true to his principles. 
I think brother John was one of the truest men that ever 
lived. He was fond of argument, not merely for con- 
troversy, but to improve his power of reasoning and to 
test the strength of his premises and opinions. I re- 
member listening to a discussion between him and a 
young man on some mooted subject. We all felt that 
John was "on the wrong side," but he maintained his 
position for a time, and then turned smilingly to his 
opponent and said, "I wanted to see what was in you." 
There is a saying that poets are born, not made. I 
think John was a born farmer ; he loved the work of 
agriculture and was genuinely a lover of nature. When 
a boy, and even in later life, if he wanted recreation he 
shouldered his gun and went to the woods. He was a 
good marksman, but I think the game was not the only 
attraction. The woods held lessons for him, the variety 
of life there, the timber, the plants and the flowers. 
Brother John was plain in his habits, preferring a simple 
life to one of ostentation, caring little for travel or sight- 
seeing, domestic in his habits but the very soul of hos- 

18 



pitality. He was humorous and had the rare faculty of 
speaking his mind in plain words without giving" offense; 
on the contrary, his very sincerity drew men to him. He 
was not a respecter of persons ; he treated all men alike, 
recognizing true manhood under a ragged coat even. He 
was a faithful friend, and his benevolence quiet and 
unobtrusive. 

When quite a boy John professed religion and united 
with the Methodist Church at Columbia. Later when 
the Congregational Church was organized in Columbia 
he became an active member of that Church. Being of 
a musical turn of mind, he had charge of the music of 
the church, playing the organ and acting as leader of 
the choir. His heart was in the work and his playing 
and singing were inspiring. He was always faithful and 
regular in all the services of the church, assisting in 
prayer, exhortation, and was most appreciated by his 
pastor. In later years his services were given to the 
Baptist Church in Linwood. On a few occasions by in- 
vitation in the absence of the pastor he filled the pulpit 
acceptably. His strength, however, was in the Sunday 
School. He was emphatically a Bible student. His 
readings were along that line. He had a retentive 
memory, delved deep and then made his own deduction 
according to reason and religious convictions. The last 
time I saw brother John alive he was speaking of his 
Sunday School class, and as he was such a busy man, 
I inquired when he studied his Sunday School lesson. 
He replied, "I read it over Sunday afternoon and think- 
about it all the week." When he was taken from us 
so suddenly his words came to my mind and I thought 
who could be better prepared, for his thoughts were 
always good, and he lived very near to the Infinite. 

19 



"As some herbs need to be crushed to give forth 
their sweetest odors, so some natures need to be tried 
by suffering to evoke the excellence that is in them." 
Brother John when a boy was impatient, quick tempered 
and easily ruffled, but after his first great sorrow in the 
death of his young wife after weeks of lingering illness, 
his nature seemed softened and he seldom if ever showed 
anger. He was patient to long-suffering, so thoughtful 
of others, with a heart full of the milk of human kind- 
ness, in quiet ways helping a friend in an emergency often 
to his own loss. 

I do not remember the year, but before the Civil 
War, John purchased a farm in Clinton County. Hav- 
ing prepared his home, he married a second time ; the 
passing years have proved the wisdom of his choice for 
himself and motherless little one. Their home was in 
a Quaker settlement of farmers. During the progress 
of the War of the Rebellion, when Cincinnati, in 1862, 
was menaced by General Kirby Smith's Confederate 
troops, she appealed for help. Governor Tod called for 
volunteers, the call being responded to by thousands. 
Among these volunteers was brother John and many of 
his neighbors. Cincinnati was saved by the services of 
her volunteer company. After their duties as soldiers 
were ended they received honorable discharge and were 
designated "Squirrel Hunters." Morgan's Raid was an 
episode of this period of the war. Morgan crossed the 
Ohio River below Cincinnati and took a detour through 
the country confiscating horses for the Southern Army. 
He was captured, confined in the penitentiary at Colum- 
bus, but escaped and went north. 



20 



Brother Cyrus was the remaining son in the old 
home, managing the business and farm for our Father. 
His health failed and he died about five months after 
our Mother, leaving Father alone in the home. Under 
these circumstances brother John gave up his farm at 
Clinton and came back to the old home, caring for our 
Father in his declining years. The old home was always 
an attractive place to the children and grandchildren. 
In times of vacation and on other occasions it was a 
favorite visiting-place with my three sons. Especially 
so with my youngest son who was very fond of his 
Uncle and Aunt and spent many happy days with them. 
In a letter received from this son on his return from 
his Uncle Elam's funeral, he writes, "It will always be 
a great regret to me that Uncle John and Uncle Elam 
passed away so suddenly that I did not get to sec them 
in their last illness. I spent so much of my boyhood in 
their company and under their influence that it would 
have been a great comfort to have had the privilege of a 
few words from them as they were drawing near the 
end." 

Brother John's death resulted from an injury he re- 
ceived from a fractious horse he was attempting to har- 
ness one frosty morning. His sudden death cast a gloom 
over the community where he had lived nearly all his 
life and where he had served the people in various of- 
fices, as Mayor and as a member of different organiza- 
tions. A pathetic incident marked the close of his life. 
When the Consolidated Street Railway Company was 
extending the East End line through Linwood, much 
difficulty was encountered in finding space for a "Y" 
at the end of the projected route. Finally brother John 

21 



proposed for a reasonable consideration to allow ground 
for a "Y" from his side lawn. This transaction having 
been consummated John, who always had been an anx- 
ious spectator of the progress of the line, became more 
enthusiastic than ever. He spent his spare moments 
watching the laying of the rails and finally saw the 
"Y" put in and the line ready for the cars. He watched 
impatiently for the first car which would mark a new 
era for his locality, but on Wednesday, November 17, 
1897, he was trampled by one of his horses and badly 
injured. The next day (Thursday) the first car came 
to his dooryard. He heard the noise made by it, but was 
unable to be moved where he could see it. The next 
day he died. 

The funeral occurred on a beautiful Sunday after- 
noon. In the house and on the lawn were gathered the 
sorrowing friends and relatives from far and near. The 
sermon was preached by the Rev. W. O. Shaw from the 
text, "The Lord knoweth the day of the upright and 
their inheritance shall be forever." The Rev. I. D. 
Jones, his former pastor in Columbia, assisted. "Rock 
of Ages," "Shall We Gather at the River," and other 
hymns he had particularly loved and enjoyed during the 
long period of Sabbath School work, were sung by mem- 
bers of his Bible Class. The bells tolled mournfully in 
all the churches of Linwood as the funeral train left the 
residence and passed through the town to the Ceme- 
tery at Alt. Washington. 



11 



®o tlj? Me mow of my !rn%r 
iElam Glljeater lOattg&fltt 

"I have a room where no one enters save I myself alone, 
There sits a blessed memory on a throne, 
There my life centers." 

I enter this chamber of memory filled with the 
recollections of childhood's happy days to gather me- 
mentos of brother Elam's beautiful life. It is with 
mingled feelings that I attempt the difficult task; my 
pen falters. He was with us so recently I cannot realize 
that he is gone, that his life is ended, and now but a 
memory. One by one the objects of our affections leave 
us, but our affections remain ; love never dies. "To live 
in hearts we leave behind is not to die." 

When Horace Greeley was dying he exclaimed, 
"Fame is a vapor, prosperity an accident, riches take 
wings, those who cheer to-day will curse to-morrow, 
only one thing endures — character." And this is true ; 
character, a good life, has a voice. It speaks when the 
tongue is silent and is either an attraction or a reproof. 
Brother Elam's life is a very beautiful one to contem- 
plate. In its entirety one of the happiest lives I ever 
knew. He seemed to get more enjoyment out of life 
than most people, not because he was exempt from 
trouble, pain, and sorrow, but on account of the cheer- 
ful spirit and attitude of mind in which he received them. 
Brother Elam was fortunate in birth-gifts, in disposi- 

25 



tion and temperament. These combined with the cir- 
cumstances of his life, I am led to think, had much to 
do with the making of his happy life. 

To me he seemed naturally good. I suppose he had 
faults, as perfection is not found in this life, but they 
were not apparent to me. I do not remember them. I 
think of him as a lovely child, fair, sometimes with rosy 
cheeks, bright hair inclined to curl, sunny faced and 
happy-hearted. He never seemed to give trouble, so 
gentle, so obedient. These memory-pictures are very 
sweet. I forget that I am old, and in these joys of 
childhood am young again. I am wandering with these 
little brothers on the hillside in the woods, hunting for 
nuts and wild flowers, down at the "riffle" in the creek 
where the waters are shallow and we can see the fish 
darting hither and thither and hear the rippling of the 
waters ; at twilight playing "hide and seek" among the 
bushes or watching the swallows circling around the 
chimney, or looking for the constellations we knew 
among the stars — then comes the call for evening pray- 
ers. The country boy is the favored boy ; early asso- 
ciations enter into his life. The natural rural scenery, 
the beautiful surroundings, the tranquillity of the coun- 
try life leave their impressions on his mind and char- 
acter. These combined with good home influences con- 
tribute to the formation of a true manhood and a 
happy life. 

Brother Elam's school days began in the little 
schoolhouse at Red Bank. He entered Woodward Col- 
lege with brother John, finished the course of study and 
received a diploma. The lives of these two brothers — 
John and Elam — run in currents so close that at times 

26 



they seem identical. They grew up together, and with 
the exception of a few years, saw each other daily and 
were interested in like pursuits. There was an affection 
between them that began in childhood and lasted through 
life, and yet they were very different in temperament, 
in individual traits and in personal appearance, each the 
complement of the other. 

After school days were over Elam spent several 
years in Brooklyn. He was with a business firm in New 
York City and sometimes went out on collecting tours 
through the New England States. One time in mid- 
winter he went to Aroostook, Maine. Part of the jour- 
ney was in a sleigh through a barren, uninhabited re- 
gion and the cold was intense. One bright moonlight 
night he made an excursion by foot over the border into 
Canada. The incidents of the trip were new experiences 
not forgotten down to the close of his life. The summer 
excursions, however, were more enjoyable — so many 
interesting places to visit inland and on the coast. While 
in Brooklyn he became a member of Plymouth Church. 
It was during Mr. Beecher's pastorate. He was also a 
member of the Young People's Meeting, the Sunday 
School and a Singing Society, all connected with the 
Church. The years he spent in Brooklyn were years 
of privilege, opportunities and improvement. But at 
length came the longing for the home and the old pur- 
suits. Brother Elam's life, like his two brothers', for 
a few years was a checkered one, sunshine and shadow, 
joy and sorrow. His first wife died a few years after 
their marriage. Afterwards he married a sister of 
brother John's wife, this tie bringing the brothers and 
their families nearer in interest and affection. 



Another secret of a happy life is happiness in the 
home. Brother Elam was singularly fortunate in his 
home life, — the household, the wife, daughters and him- 
self each contributing to the happiness of the others. 
Brother Elam was very thoughtful for the comfort of 
the family. He was interested in all modern improve- 
ments for comfort, convenience and labor-saving, and 
introduced these improvements into his home as far 
as practicable. He was fond of investigation, interested 
in the improvements going on in the city, and adjacent 
country, enjoyed trolley rides on the various lines diverg- 
ing from the city into the country, noting changes in the 
march of progress. His mind turned to natural sciences, 
— the phenomena of nature, temperature, rainfall, etc. 
He was methodical in all his habits, accurate and trust- 
worthy in business, upright and honorable in all the 
transactions of life. 

In his boyhood he united with the Methodist Prot- 
estant Church. After his return from Brooklyn he be- 
came a member of the Congregational Church in Co- 
lumbia. In later years he attended the Baptist Church 
at Linwood, being faithful in regular attendance at all 
the services of the Church and Sunday School. Brother 
Elam was never specially interested in theological ques- 
tions or in the modern interpretation of the Scriptures. 
He had no inclination to remove the old landmarks, but 
was satisfied to walk in the old paths. His religion was 
eminently practical, "not a strange or added thing," but 
a part of his life, the ruling principle governing the 
manifold deeds and acts of every common day. Perhaps 
the dominant secret of his serene and happy life was 
his strong and deep faith in the goodness of the Provi- 

28 



donee ruling in the affairs of life. Believing this and 
in the ultimate good, he could, amid discouragements, 
keep a brave heart, seeing in the dark cloud the "silver 
lining" and the "smiling face behind the frowning Provi- 
dence," and he was able ever to look on the bright side 
of things, trusting in the promise that all things work 
together for good to them that love God. 

I will quote from my "Christmas letter," the last 
letter I received from brother Elam. In this letter we 
have his own testimony to his happy life. After the 
greetings, wishing me a "Merry Christmas and a Happy 
New Year," he writes: "According to history, it was 
one hundred years ago this very day (the 20th) in De- 
cember, 1806, that our Langdon pioneers landed in Co- 
lumbia. I wonder if it was such a bright sunny day 
to them as it is to-day to us in Linwood. I woke up 
early this morning and soon got to thinking over family 
matters and of how much I was indebted to a good an- 
cestry, good inheritance — mental and physical — from 
good parents and how very thankful I ought to be for 
having been born in so good a home and in Linwood. 
You know how fast your thoughts carry you when you 
begin to look back, to our young days at schoolhouse and 
farm work, fishing and hunting, social gatherings, quar- 
terly meetings of the old Radical Church, the entertain- 
ing of preachers, school-teachers and travelers. I never 
get tired of "Looking Backward," some folks do. I 
have often wished I could go back and begin life over 
again and have it all exactly as it has been, too, for, taken 
as a whole, I've had a happy life." 

A few days after this letter was written he was 
taken with an illness that proved fatal in a very short 

29 



time. The end, like his life, was peaceful. He did not 
suffer much, but quietly went into the sleep that knows 
no waking. The funeral services were conducted by 
Rev. Franklin Johnson, pastor of the Linwood Baptist 
Church, and were simple and impressive. There is a 
coincidence marking the beginning and the end of brother 
Elanrs life that is noteworthy. He was born at the 
time of the great flood in 1832, the overflow or back- 
water from the Ohio River higher at that time than ever 
known by the oldest inhabitants, being ever since the 
gauge for high water. At the time of his death high 
water prevailed, covering the lower lands and cutting 
off communication by railroad and trolley lines with 
Cincinnati and vicinity, thus preventing many friends 
and relatives from attending the funeral. 

Brother Elam has left to the community where he 
has lived nearly all his life and served in many ways, 
to the friends of his youth that remain, to his relatives 
and family, the legacy of a noble life whose memory 
will linger with us like the fragrance of sweet flowers. 

"As thrills of long-hushed tone 
Live in the viol, so our souls grow fine 
With keen vibrations from the touch divine of noble natures 



30 




itwrtvLU. JL. vAIda-a-OUL 



Ulemarg JftrtitreB of my Attgri Snstrr 
(ftmttijta Hatujfon rtiirriU 

"Patiently over the road we fare, 

Intent on the end we'd win; 
There's a hint of frost in the misty air, 

And the night is closing in; 
But vague and far from the muffled past 

Comes a tender, haunting tone, 
And we grasp the skirts of a memory fast 

From the land of our morning blown." 

Looking back through the long intervening years 
to the morning of life, the scenes of those early days 
seem shadowy and dreamlike. Sometimes "Sad dreams, 
as, when the spirit of our youth returns in sleep and takes 
us along the shining track of our young life and points 
oitt all we have lost upon the way." 

Many years have come and gone since dear Cynthia 
left us, — measured by the years of time she has lived 
longer in Heaven than on earth. The passing years have 
brought many changes, the old home is gone, and all 
the loved ones have entered the life beyond, save I. 
alone, who still abide in the "Wayside Inn," far on the 
journey of life. I wonder if they miss me in Heaven? 

My sister and I were so intimate, such close com- 
panions, with similar tastes and interests;, that our lives 
for many years were almost as one, and the memory 
of these years spent together in the dear old home is 
very sweet and precious. An early memory-picture is 
of the playhouse in the attic. One of its treasures is 

33 



a little red box full of odds and ends of silk and ribbons, 
out of which my sister is fashioning dolls' dresses and 
hats. I am interested in fitting them on, and when the 
dolls are dressed to our satisfaction they are taken out 
to visit imaginary friends living in different corners of 
the room. Happy childhood in the old-fashioned days 
of long ago! 

Another picture: My sister and I are returning 
home from school, a summer school in the little house 
on the bank of the creek near our home. The school 
was taught by our Cousin who was very indulgent. Play 
and study were combined to make the hours less irksome 
to the little children who composed the school. My 
sister is leading by the hand our little brother who had 
gone with us that afternoon as a pastime. Coming to- 
ward us was a large vicious-looking dog, foaming at the 
mouth. My sister lifted our brother over the fence and 
then climbed after him. I stood transfixed with terror 
watching the dog. Fortunately, or shall I say providen- 
tially, he turned up the creek biting at the roots of the 
trees and any object in his way. 

Then there are pleasing pictures of visits to old la- 
dies in our neighborhood, and to schoolmates. One old 
lady whom we often visited when rambling through the 
woods after wild-flowers or nuts, lived on the hill-top 
in a log cabin covered with trumpet-creeper, and in sum- 
mer when in bloom the place was a bovver of loveliness. 
Another old lady lived across the fields. With the 
thought of these visits comes the vision of a dear old 
lady with snowy hair and a kind face, the odor of old- 
fashioned flowers, the humming of bees around the hive, 
two little girls leaning over the well-curb to see their 

34 



faces at the bottom of the well, and the bright sunshine 
and stillness everywhere. Visions of visits to school- 
mates come crowding each other ; visits to the "Dairy 
Farm," with its spring of cold water, that one time in 
fever I longed for, as David longed for water from the 
well at Bethlehem ; also visits to a stately home, where 
we were received with ceremony, and invited into the 
beautiful parlors, where at teatime the gold banded china 
was brought out in our honor, the china that in early 
times the master of the house had brought in his saddle- 
bags on horseback over the mountains. 

The winter evenings at home form pleasant pic- 
tures, when we children gathered around the large fire- 
place in the kitchen, cracked nuts, popped corn, told 
stories, and looked for faces among the red coals, seeing 
"when the lights burned low, the flickering shadows soft- 
ly come and go." And there were evenings for work and 
study, as well as for play, when we gathered around the 
table with books, pencils and slates. In these "memory 
pictures" there are always two little girls, my sister and 
myself, for we were inseparable — our plays, our joys 
and sorrows were shared, and for many years we oc- 
cupied the same bedroom. One early recollection is in 
the evening after prayers, when a young woman who 
assisted with the family sewing would take us little girls 
up to bed. After we were snugly tucked in bed and had 
said our prayers, she would sit beside us and repeat to 
us poetry. I remember only "The Orphans," a sad tale 
of a brother and sister who had no father or mother, 
both dead. This tale of woe made a great impression 
on our minds and is remembered to this day. 

Our parents believed in the importance of forming 

35 



good habits when young, that a child must be trained in 
the way he should go. Accordingly, when quite young 
my sister and I went to church, and as we were often 
asked to repeat the text, and also to tell something of 
the sermon, the exercise had the effect of making us 
more attentive. I can recall many of the texts of that 
early day and a little of the sermons — one in particular, 
preached by an English woman on "The Ten Virgins." 
Another text from Solomon's Songs that puzzled my 
childish mind, as I could not see any religion in it : "O 
my dove, thou art in the cleft of the rock, in the secret 
places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me 
hear thy voice ; for sweet is thy voice and thy counte- 
nance is comely." When a Sunday School was formed 
in Columbia by our Father and others, we attended it 
regularly, sometimes walking with our Father, who was 
fond of walking the distance of two miles. In spring 
the walk was delightful, the fields and meadows giving 
various shades of green ; in the autumn the fields of 
waving grain, the shadows chasing each other, and the 
sound of "the wind across the wheat" were charming. 
We studied our Sunday School lesson, my sister and I, 
on Saturday afternoon, and with the help of our dear 
Father and Clark's Commentary we usually had our les- 
sons pretty well learned. Indeed we would have been 
humiliated had our teacher asked us a question connected 
with the lesson to which we could not give a correct 
answer. We had the same teacher for many years, a 
pious, lovely young woman whom I recall with much 
pleasure. In later years she became to us a very dear 
friend, and this friendship had no doubt a good and 
lasting influence on our young lives. She married and 

36 



went west to live, and in the vicissitudes of these many 
years I have lost all knowledge of her. As she was 
much older than I, she is, no doubt, among the shining 
hosts in Heaven, and she and my dear sister have met 
and renewed the acquaintance begun on earth, in the 
Golden City of God. 

The little schoolhouse in onr neighborhood was 
abandoned and a larger one built at Red Bank, nearer the 
center of the school district. The location of the new 
schoolhouse was a beautiful one, in the midst of large 
trees, and under their wide spreading branches we played 
and ate our dinners in summertime. After my sister 
had finished the course of study at the Red Bank Acad- 
emy she went to a "Female Institution" in Cincinnati, 
taught by Mr. Albert Picket and his son, John W. Picket. 
It was considered the best school of the kind at that 
time in Cincinnati. 

The summer after sister Cynthia left school she 
went with our Father and a cousin on a visit to relatives 
in Columbus and Blendon, near Columbus. It was be- 
fore the days of railroads. The trip was made in our 
family carriage, stopping at night at a farmhouse or 
tavern as it chanced to be when night came on. The 
scenery along the way was beautiful, the journey a 
memorable one. While in Columbus the various places 
of interest, the public buildings and institutions were 
visited. The following winter there was a revival of 
religion in the Methodist Church in Columbia, where 
our family attended, that was remarkable because of 
the number of young people who professed religion and 
united with the church. My sister and my oldest brother 
were among the number. The change in the lives of 

37 



these young Christians and the result of this revival in 
the history of the church is a testimony to the trans- 
forming power and influence of the Christian religion. 

My sister was endowed with great personal beauty 
and natural refinement of manner. These, combined 
with a purity of feeling and sweetness of disposition, 
made her a favorite in whatever circle she moved. In 
personal appearance she was tall and slender ; her brown 
hair fell in natural waves and curls ; her eyes dark blue, 
with a pensive expression ; her complexion fine and clear, 
with a beautiful brow. This pen picture, like all pictures 
of her, fail to do her justice, because it is beyond the 
skill of writer or artist to grasp the intangible charm of 
her person and manner. 

One afternoon Dr. Morrill, a young physician who 
had but recently opened an office and commenced the 
practice of medicine in Madisonville, a village about two 
miles from our home, called, with a letter of introduc- 
tion to our Father. He met my sister and was charmed 
with her, and came again and again. The pleasing ac- 
quaintance grew and ripened into a deep and lasting 
affection. When the young lover asked my parents for 
their daughter in marriage their only objection was her 
youth, — she was only eighteen years old. To this he 
facetiously replied, "She will get better of that every 
day." 

The marriage took place in the autumn, a home 
wedding in the large old-fashioned parlor, with its open 
fireplace, blazing wood fire and the shining brass and- 
irons, amid the soft radiance of wax candles. My sister 
was a beautiful bride in her wedding dress of white 
organdie-muslin and orange flowers. The bridesmaid 

38 



was Dr. Morrill's sister and the groomsman a cousin of 
the bride, a young lawyer from Cincinnati. The cere- 
mony was performed by Dr. Lyman Beecher, at that 
time President of Lane Theological Seminary. In a few 
days my sister left the dear old home to make a new 
one for herself and the one she loved. The new home, 
with its atmosphere of religion, refinement and affection, 
was an ideal one. "The light of love shines over all, of 
love that says not mine and thine, but ours, for ours is 
thine and mine." As the new home was not far from 
the old one, consequently for a few years our intercourse 
was uninterrupted. 

After a few years, however, from various consid- 
erations, Dr. Morrill gave up the practice of medicine 
and engaged in delivering a course of medical lectures. 
These lectures he delivered in the larger cities of Ohio 
and adjacent states. My sister accompanied her husband 
on these lecturing tours, and her letters are intensely 
interesting, telling of divers modes of travel by stage- 
coach, canal, etc., and hotel experiences. The winter 
being the lecture season, the summers were still spent 
at the old home. 

In the meantime Dr. Morrill made a business ar- 
rangement with some gentlemen to do laboratory work 
in New York City. This removal to New York was the 
first real separation from my sister ; letters and annual 
visits kept us in close touch, but the distance intervened. 
In an incidental way, through a special case. Dr. Morrill 
became interested in Homoeopathy, and on investigation 
and thorough study became convinced of its merits and 
efficacy and soon after adopted the system. He pur- 
chased a home, and opened an office in Brooklyn not 

39 



far from Plymouth Church. My sister and her husband 
were among the very early members of this church, both 
joining in 1848. They continued till their death earnest 
workers and devoted friends of Henry Ward Beecher. 
As long as health permitted my sister was active in so- 
cial and church circles, and was a member of the va- 
rious organizations connected with the church. Dr. 
Morrill for ten consecutive years was Superintendent 
of the Sunday School. 

My sister drew many friends around her and the 
home here was a very happy one. The coming of a 
little daughter into the home brought more light and joy 
and love into their lives. Perfect happiness is not found 
on earth, and if found is not of long continuance. 

"Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary." 

Dark clouds are gathering over my dear sister's life 
and home. Her health that had not been very good since 
the birth of the daughter, began to decline rapidly. In 
the course of a few months evidences of consumption 
became painfully manifest. She was advised to leave 
the seacoast and try the effect of a drier, inland, and 
mountain air. Accordingly she spent a month at Sara- 
toga Springs, and another month at Clarendon Springs 
at Castleton, Vermont, but without benefit. She be- 
came so reduced that her appearance indicated that she 
would not outlive the winter. But contrary to the ex- 
pectation of her friends, as cool weather came on she 
began to improve. On New Year's Day, i860, she kept 
open house, according to the custom, and received in 

40 



person not less than two hundred and fifty visitors, yet 
at the close of the long day manifested no unusual fa- 
tigue. Out these bright anticipations were suddenly 
clouded. On the tenth of April, without a moment's 
warning, she was seized with a violent hemorrhage of 
the lungs that reduced her in half an hour to such 
feebleness that she did not leave her bed for weeks. 
The last time she was down stairs was on Thanksgiving 
Day, November 29th. She seemed to be conscious that 
the end was near, and there were a few last things she 
wanted to do. One thing was the presentation of three 
gifts of remembrance, breast-pins, to her Mother, to her 
Sister, and to her husband's sister. These pins were 
handsomely wrought in gold, enclosing hair in the form 
of a "Prince's Plume" of five sprays united with a row 
of pearls. Another item was a letter to her sister which 
she wrote leaning on her elbow in the bed. Still another 
gift was the procuring of a handsome papier mache box 
in which she deposited her Bible, her bridal ring, her 
breastpin, and other choice keepsakes ; she designed 
writing a letter to be deposited with them, the whole to 
be kept for the little daughter as a present on her tenth 
birthday. But the letter was never written, the feeble 
strength gave way, the life work was ended and so 
tranquilly and gently did the end come, that those stand- 
ing by hardly knew the moment when the spirit mounted 
and fled to the Eternal City whose Maker and Builder 
is God. 

The change which took place in my sister's relig- 
ious experience during her sickness was remarkable. She 
had naturally a strong instinctive fear of death. The 
slightest illness in herself or her family filled her with 

41 



alarm. This was not because she did not consider her- 
self a Christian, for she always thought she experienced 
religion at the revival I have mentioned when she was 
seventeen years of age. It was probably partly from 
constitutional causes which naturally inclined her to look 
upon, and then shrink from the dark side, but it may be 
that although a Christian she had not yet come into full 
and conscious realization of her personal union with 
Christ. But whatever may have been the cause or 
causes, she passed from out the shadow of the cloud to 
the full sunshine of her Heavenly Father's face. Hence- 
forward all was joy and peace. 

At her suggestion and request a burial plot was 
purchased in Greenwood Cemetery. Familiar with the 
grounds, she often expressed her satisfaction that so 
pleasant a spot had been secured for her final resting 
place. The grave is not far from the Gate of Entrance 
to the left of the road, on the sloping side of a gentle 
hill, facing the west, ''looking," as she remarked, "to- 
ward her own beloved Ohio home." The funeral serv- 
ices were held in Plymouth Church and conducted by 
Mr. Beecher, on Sunday afternoon at two o'clock, the 
hour chosen that the Sunday School might be present 
in a body, as my sister had expressed a wish shortly be- 
fore her death that the children might attend her funeral. 
Notwithstanding the coldness of the day, January 13th, 
one of the most bitter of all the year, the church was 
well-nigh crowded with those who attended. The serv- 
ices were lengthy and very impressive with a full choir, 
and Mr. Zundell at the organ. One of the hymns was 
my Sister's favorite, "O, Sacred Head, now Wounded, 
with grief and shame weighed down." 

42 



While writing these "Memory Pictures" of my dear 
Sister I seem as in childhood to be walking with her, 
hand in hand, or later as companion with her by my 
side in "sweet converse." As I close the book of mem- 
ory and clasp its lids, a sense of sadness and loneliness 
comes over me that is inexpressible. I loved this sister 
almost to adoration, but I would not if I could, recall 
her to this life. She fought a good fight and has gained 
a crown, the reward of the blest. 

"Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust 
(Since He who knows our need is just) 
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 

Alas for him who never sees 

The stars shine through his cypress trees; 
Who hath not learned in hours of faith 

The truth to flesh and sense unknown : 
That Life is ever Lord of Death 

And Love can never lose its own." 



43 



(iur MattyvB I*ailj 



Silently, over land and sea, 
Came down the winter's night; 

Bearing upon its ebon wings 
A mantle purely white — 

A spangled robe, as beautiful 

As the Immortals wear; 
And over vale and glade it spread 

The vesture soft and fair. 

And o'er the frozen river's breast, 
And o'er the town 'twas spread; 

And o'er the monuments and mounds 
Above the quiet dead. 

Upon the mountain's lofty brow, 

And o'er the fields below — 
Oh! lightly, lightly, everywhere, 

Came down the gentle snow. 

Within our peaceful, sheltered home, 
Where all was bright and warm, 

Was one preparing to go forth; 
But not into the storm. 

A stranger to our home had come — 

A message there to bring; 
Our mother took the scroll, and knew 

The signet of the King. 

O God! the parting hour had come — 
Husband, nor child, nor friend, 

Could stand against the Stranger's power, 
Nor with his will contend. 

We gathered round our mother's bed, 

To catch her parting breath; 
But One stood closer to her heart — 

We knew his name was Death. 

And from our love, and from our grief, 

And from our dwelling warm. 
He bore our mother in his arms — 

But not into the storm. 

44 



She went unseen; but not alone, 

Dear pilgrim of the earth, 
For Jesus held her by the hand, 

As Azrael bore her forth. 

And the sweet word she left for us 

Shall our life's watch-word be: 
"As I have followed Jesus' steps, 

Belov'd ones, follow me." 

We laid her body down to sleep 

Where all is sweet and still. 
Where the last rays of sunlight fall 

Upon the westward hill. 

And precious, precious to our hearts 

Shall be that hallowed spot; 
While by the Lord she hived so well 

It will not be forgot. 

Wasted and wan we laid her down, 

Worn out by mortal strife; 
But fair and glorious shall she spring 

To glad immortal life. 

Our Heavenly Father, teach us how 

To live, and how to die, 
That we may with our mother rise 

To immortality. 

Augusta Moore. 

The author of this poem was a close personal friend 
of the family, as will be seen by the following quotation 
from the letter sent with the manuscript w r ritten two 
days after the funeral : 'T lost my dear Mother when I 
was a little child and have not yet got over the desolate 
feeling that then came upon me. In many respects your 
Mother resembled mine and I loved her very, very 
dearly." 



45 







<fc&. 



(i*»«^ 



fflmwxws of my ICtfa 

XS25-XBBS 

l^arrtrt Sampan WtUtama 

"When Time, who steals our years away, 

Shall steal our pleasures, too, 
The memory of the past will stay 

And half our joys renew." 

It is a great truth that when we retire into our- 
selves, we are apt to call up memories of the past. This 
is especially true of elderly people. While they are in- 
terested in the really significant things of the present, 
they find themselves recalling more and more the memo- 
ries of the long ago, — the scenes of childhood, the friends 
they have known, the things that have interested them, 
what they have read or heard in those early times. 
Youth looks forward hopefully into the future, those 
who have reached maturity and are in the heat of the 
hattle of life, live more in the present. Tint old age, 
with its rich store of memories, lives much in the past. 

Some years ago I read a story of a Persian vizier 
who dedicated an apartment in his palace to be a cham- 
ber of memory. In it he kept the memorials of his 
earlier days before royal favor had lifted him from his 
lowly place to a position of honor. It was a little room, 
with bare floors, and here he kept his crook, his wallet, 
his coarse dress and his water-cruse, things that had be- 

49 



longed to his shepherd life. Every day he went for an 
hour away from the splendor of his palace to live again 
for a time amid the memorials of his happy youth. 

Like the Persian vizier I have a memory-chamber 
filled with the memorials of a long life. In hours of 
loneliness I enter this secret chamber, shut out the pres- 
ent and live among the memorials of the past. 

The walls of this chamber are like a sensitized plate, 
so to speak, and retain the images made by experiences, 
scenes of childhood, and of later years, portraits of dear 
friends, an 1 through the room arc countless mementos 
the years have garnered. These arc all linked together 
by a hidden chain, 

"Awake hut one and 1<>! a myriad rise! 
Each stamps its image as the other flies!" 

Memory is a wonderful gift, an invaluable treasure 
to the aged, whose life without it would indeed be bar- 
ren and lonely. I have lived a long life, almost four- 
score and three years ; the last one living of a large 
family. I am therefore asked to write the memories of 
my life for my sons and grandchildren. It will be but 
a simple story. I have nothing remarkable to record. 
The years have wrought great changes in the world 
around me and varied experiences have left their im- 
press on my life. 

The hand of Time and the dust of year- have 
dimmed and obliterated some of the earlier scenes and 
circumstances, but my birthplace, the house where I 
was born, and the immediate surroundings stand otit in 
rather bold relief. A frame house painted white in the 
midst of trees and shrubbery, a large elm tree with wide 

50 



spreading branches, where the blue jays built their nests 
every year, the yard in front extending down to the 
creek, the little gate and pathway leading to the foot- 
bridge, the garden with its walk bordered with old-fash- 
ioned flowers and herbs, the orchard with its luscious 
fruits, the pasture with the sheep and lambs, the wood- 
lands beyond, full of wild flowers, the well with sweep 
and iron-bound bucket on the west of the house down 
a sloping hill, and the "big gate" opening out into the 
road at the corner of the yard. When I was born, in 
1825, this was a country place, seven miles from Cin- 
cinnati, then a small town compared with its present 
size; in time of bad roads it was almost a day's journey 
into the city and back. Now the site of the old home- 
stead is within the city limits, and trolley lines extend 
out in all directions, one from the corner where the 
big gate used to be. 

My first conscious remembrance is riding down the 
sloping hill to this gate, my Father walking by the side 
of the horse holding me on. I am perhaps two years 
old. In the next picture I am a little older, perhaps 
three. We are in the living room, a man is playing 
"Yankee Doodle" on a fiddle and I am dancing around 
the room to the amusement of my Father and Mother 
and the old musician. Another picture about this time 
comes to mind : I am dressed to go to meeting with my 
Father and Mother. I have on a new bonnet, a very 
pretty one of white straw, lined with blue silk and 
trimmed with blue brocaded ribbon. The meeting is 
at Uncle Oliver's. We cross the fields and have a fence 
to climb. My Father assists my Mother over and offers 
to help the little daughter, but with the new bonnet on. 

51 



I feel equal to anything and say "I can get over myself." 
I reach the top of the fence ready to jump, but my dress 
has caught and down I come headlong on the new bon- 
net. I wept bitterly, but my mother, like all good moth- 
ers, wiped the tears away, and straightened the crushed 
bonnet as well as she could. The rest of the way I 
walked demurely by my mother's side, every vestige of 
pride gone. There is, however, a happy ending to this 
little episode. In a few days a minister and his daugh- 
ter stopped with us over night. The daughter worked 
in a milliner's shop in the city. She took the bonnet, 
ripped the lining, pressed the creases out of the straw 
and made it as good as new. But I never forgot the 
incident nor the lesson. 

There was a house on the hilltop near the brow of 
the hill in an almost inaccessible place, perhaps a mile 
from our house, but distinctly visible from its elevated 
position, that we children regarded with mystery. At 
night the lights in the windows twinkled like stars. No 
one seemed to know anything about the people who lived 
there. One day when my Sister was at the "Dairy 
Farm," the little girl we visited told her that the house 
was empty, that the people had moved away. Now 
seemed the time for investigation. The little girls 
climbed the steep hillside, and the fence at the top, and 
were about to enter the house through a door partly 
open when a loud noise behind the door as if somehing 
heavy had fallen or some man or animal had jumped 
from a height so startled and frightened them that they 
ran tumbling over fence and down the hill as if some 
wild thing was after them. So another mystery was 
added to the house on the hilltop. 

52 



The summer I was four years old, I went with 
Sister Cynthia to the little schoolhouse in our neighbor- 
hood taught by Cousin Mary Langdon. We were taught 
to sew as well as to read. Pieces of calico cut in squares 
were basted together at home. I took them to school in 
a little basket and sewed them together with an "over- 
stitch." Some years later I had a little quilting party, 
and the quilt was quilted and displayed as the work of 
a little girl of four years. An incident occurred while 
attending this school that gave Cousin Eunice and my- 
self in later years some amusement. One afternoon 
at recess we decided without thought, childlike, to go 
across the meadows to see a house that the backwater 
had floated from somewhere, and that had been tied 
to a tree. When near the house a man lying on the 
ground threw a stone at us. We ran back as fast as our 
little feet could take us to the schoolhouse, but the school 
was dismissed, the teacher and children gone and the 
door closed. I went with Eunice to her home, it being 
nearer than mine. We told her mother that a man had 
shot at us, and in proof pointed to a hole in Eunice's 
dress. This shows the imagination of children under 
severe excitement. We really believed at the time that 
the man had shot at us. 

Associated with the pleasant things of childhood 
are the flowers, the old-fashioned flowers in the yard 
and garden, one the "hundred-leaved rose," my Father's 
favorite, now seldom seen. I remember rising early in 
the morning, when a child, going out in my night gown 
with bare feet into the dew to see if certain half-opened 
buds I had noticed the evening before had come to full 
flower. And the wild flowers grew everywhere, and in 

53 



great profusion. Some seem to have passed away with 
the years. It was one of my pleasures to wander through 
the fields and woods in search of these wild flowers, 
and to find a new one was as delightful as finding a gem. 
The summer I was six years old, I went with Sister 
Cynthia to the school at Red Bank. Mr. Lee, who, 
taught that summer, is remembered as a very kind 
teacher. Two incidents of this time are recalled : one, 
the entrance of a mad dog into the schoolroom. I was 
sitting near the door and the dog rushed by me before 
I had time to get upon the bench as the others did. Mr. 
Lee drove the dog out with the broom and he was killed 
by some men who were after him for that purpose. The 
other, a freshet, in Duck Creek, from a heavy rain that 
made it impossible for us to get home. We two little 
girls had to stay all night at Cousin Charles Langdon's. 
The next day our Father was able to cross the creek on 
horseback and come for us. He took me in front of 
him and Sister Cynthia sat behind and clung to him. 
As we crossed the rapid stream it seemed as if we were 
floating down with the water. The next year (in 1832) 
the bridge was built, and also the Wooster Pike, a mac- 
adamized road that took part of our yard, fruit trees 
and shrubbery. "The flood," as we called it, was in the 
spring of 1832, the water at that time higher than ever 
known before by the oldest inhabitant, and ever since 
the gauge for high-water. In this year also was another 
remarkable occurrence, the first visitation of the Asiatic 
Cholera in this country. It was very severe in Cincin- 
nati, many hundreds dying with it. I remember to this 
day the widespread gloom and terror, and how my 
spirits were depressed even though I was but a little 

54 



""Miii«miiiiiiin,,4, 





* t ^fev i l wy 'i i -'i » ^^vv- i v!! | l 'l^- i | )i> i i m 




&q f% the &auAy rate *$\te^ 

Unfcttd the jewel j of thy Mr, 
Ana c# -t«'w4 thoughts of earth ay ay K 

O'Wien JteT^tly heM in Prayer . 
At>^ tw n thee to the Pa$e of tmth,, 

tt*er**eek the iu&m& love of heaven, 
Coweta that veil jhay *uardl thy yo^th* 

An* teach the lovt to n&ortate &iven. 



let my: viw. tepio^ spirit* aare, 
The sacred wa oF Coato scorn, - 
Aita scoffs hopes ana comforts there v 
&OKUUI it* Wessea precepts turn- • 
■8Mt am shoutl Vttan veak ana ftarf, 

ta? t ast her $wMin$ chart a^tJe, 
When ewthiy hope* so often fait, 
Where shay she turn on earth ie$Ue. 
'*»**& #34. Cynthia 








'U&'tJh^CLs cyUt^itaaLent^ . 



child. I was a very sensitive child, easily affected by 
the influences and circumstances around me. 

The memories of the schooldays at Red Bank are 
full of interest. In the winter the big boys and girls 
went to school and there were incidents both tragic and 
comic, outdoor sports and games, skating and sliding 
on the millpond and creek, the "barring out" by the 
big boys at Christmas, etc. The summer schools were 
more quiet, attended only by the smaller children. But 
they were happy days. We made playhouses under the 
trees, gathered wild flowers, stones, and shells from the 
creek to decorate the rooms, made swings out of the 
branches of the trees, went to the Old Mill to get 
weighed, filled our pockets with wheat, took walks in 
the woods. We knew almost every tree and flower by 
name, and many of the birds by their notes. We live 1 
very near Mother Nature and loved her, too, and our 
hearts were kept pure and innocent without guile. 

Our summer schools were usually conducted by a 
lady and the little girls were taught fancy work. My 
Sister worked the sampler shown herewith while at- 
tending Miss Sarah Morrison's school in the summer 
of 1834, when she was eleven years of age. This is the 
"Miss Sarah" of our affectionate memory. 

The winter of my thirteenth year I was taken sud- 
denly ill in school with a fainting spell that alarmed the 
teacher and the whole school. I remember the fright- 
ened look on brother James's face. Word was sent to 
my home, Father came for me, and that was the last 
of my schooldays at Red Bank. Mr. Curtis, a gentle- 
man from Rochester, New York, was our teacher that 
winter and boarded at our house. He was an excellent 

57 



teacher and we made progress in our studies under his 
instruction. On Christmas Day this winter, Julia, the 
young woman who had lived with us since a little girl, 
was married to Mr. Fisk, a young farmer in the neigh- 
borhood. Mr. Curtis and Cousin Caroline were the at- 
tendants. After the ceremony the bride's cake and wine 
were served to the guests in the parlor, the bridesmaid 
passing the cake and the groomsman the wine, as was the 
custom at that time. Afterwards followed the dinner. 
Sister Cynthia was away at school, and when Julia left 
for her own home, it was very lonely and with my con- 
tinued ill health, the days dragged wearily till Sister 
Cynthia returned from school the next summer. 

About this time I went with my mother to visit 
Grandmother Phelps who lived with Uncle William a 
few miles back of Rising Sun, Indiana. We went from 
Cincinnati to Rising Sun by steamboat, it being my first 
trip on the Ohio River. Travel in the days of which I 
am writing was mostly by steamboat, canalboat or stage- 
coach. There were no railroads in the West, perhaps 
one or two in the East and no electric roads, no tele- 
graph nor telephone. While on this visit Grandmother 
gave me the little tumbler her father (Benjamin Brown) 
had obtained from a British officer when he was in the 
Revolutionary War. As my health seemed sufficiently 
improved in September, 1840, at the beginning of the 
term I entered Pickett's "Female Institution" in Cincin- 
nati. I boarded at Uncle Elam's (my father's brother), 
going home about once a month on Friday evening and 
returning Sunday afternoon by the stage-coach, that 
carried the mails and passengers into the country and 
towns beyond. One Sunday afternoon in winter word 

58 



was sent to the Toll-gate across the bridge, as usual, 
for the stage to stop at our house. At dark an open 
wagon drove up with four men beside the driver. The 
stage-coach had met with an accident, and a wagon had 
been secured, boards having been put across for seats. 
My mother hesitated about my going, but it seemed the 
only way, and I did not want to miss my lessons — they 
were paramount. I got in and sat by one of the men ; 
seven miles was a long, lonely ride in the dark, with 
strange men for a girl of fifteen. I had confidence in 
the stage driver, for he knew my Uncle (then Assistant 
Postmaster), and who I was. Not a word was spoken 
the whole distance. The men got out at the Post Office, 
the driver asked if I wanted to go to my Uncle's and 
after throwing out the mail bags, drove to Uncle's resi- 
dence. Once that winter during an exceedingly cold time 
the stage failed to come for some reason. We rose early 
Monday morning, and brother James took me in our 
carriage through the snow and the cold in time for 
school. 

This winter I read my first real novel, "Children of 
the Abbey." A school friend gave it to me to read and 
because of her kindness I could not decline. I read it 
in the secrecy of my room and felt that I was doing 
wrong, having the impression that novels were not good 
for young people to read. We had, however, at home a 
number of story books. I read at a very early age 
"Shakespear's Tales." I would take the book out in 
the barn and sit in the sleigh-bed to be alone and enjoy 
the book. I had also read "Gulliver's Travels," "Rob- 
inson Crusoe," "Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress," and Peter 
Parley's story books. Our Father provided us with 

59 



books according to the times and those he thought good 
for us to read. When young I read the Bible through 
several times, once according to the rule : three chapters 
every day and five on Sunday. I have no recollection of 
the time I learned to read, but remember distinctly the 
first effort at writing. I can see the page before me with 
the crooked lines and imperfect letters as I endeavored to 
follow the copy. 

Air. Pickett's school was a most excellent one, very 
different from our country schools, as it was systema- 
tized and graded. So eager was I to improve these op- 
portunities to get a better education that I studied almost 
constantly and towards the end of the school year, in 
May, just before examination, my health gave way and 
I was forced to give up and go home. Could I have kept 
on a few weeks longer, as I had not failed in a single 
lesson, I would have received the gold medal. 

That summer we had an awful storm, a tornado, 
that swept down the valley near our home blowing down 
trees, roofs off of houses and chimneys down. A large 
locust tree at our door was pulled up as if by an invisible 
hand, large sycamore trees were swept to the ground 
by the wind. I witnessed this from the window and in 
my weak state of health was almost overcome by fright. 
The storm, the danger, my utter helplessness, made a 
great impression on my mind and intensified my longing 
to be a Christian. I seriously set about it, but much of 
the preaching of these days, religious experiences, re- 
markable conversions, and the books I read tended to 
give a wrong conception of religion and of God. Like 
Bunyan's Pilgrim, I traveled a long and weary way be- 
fore I reached the mountain top, and in the light beheld 

60 



not an angry God to propitiate hut a God of love. One 
Sunday afternoon, after a sermon by our beloved pastor, 
Rev. W. B. Evans, I united with the Methodist Prot- 
estant Church in Columhia. I was sixteen years old. In 
all these years religion has been to me the most import- 
ant subject in life. I have endeavored to enlighten my 
mind in divine things, to seek to know the will of God 
and to obey it. "to have always a conscience void of 
offence toward God and toward men." It is the life that 
counts, the daily life, what we are in the sight of God. 
If I have any resolution or motto to govern my life it 
is this: That I will so live as I shall wish I had done 
when I come to die. I think my Father in his religious 
experience and in every way has influenced my life more 
than any other person. I had always the utmost con- 
fidence in his advice and counsels. In childhood I looked 
up to him as to a superior being and never by word or 
act did he ever lower himself from the pedestal where 
in)- affection and reverence had placed him. 

To my Mother I owe more than words can express, 
for patient and loving care through many illnesses from 
childhood to womanhood, for careful training and ju- 
dicious instruction regarding the proprieties of life, and 
for the sweet companionship of later life. We were a 
happy family of brothers and sisters, in a bright and 
cheerful home, with a great deal of company and much 
business going on, each one having some duties to per- 
form in the home or on the farm. The home life \v;b 
very methodical. My parents, both from New England 
of Puritan descent, had set up a Xew England home 
in this far Western country. Method and system even 
in a large, busy family gave time for daily devotv 

61 



morning and evening prayer in the family circle were 
never neglected and there was an atmosphere of religion 
as well as of work in the household. 

In November, 1841, Sister Cynthia was married to 
Dr. Morrill, a young physician practicing medicine in 
Madisonville about two miles from our home. As she 
often went driving with the doctor and called at the home 
w r e saw her every few days, and I sometimes spent sev- 
eral days at a time with them in the new home. Our in- 
tercourse was, therefore, little interrupted by her mar- 
riage. My health all this time continued very poor, and 
Dr. Morrill, who was our physician, got rather discour- 
aged. One day he took me into the city to have Dr. 
Foote see me, a physician with whom he had studied. 1 
learned afterwards that Dr. Foote did not think I would 
live more than six weeks, but here I am still in the world, 
and I trust I have not lived these years in vain. When 
a little girl I was playing beside the creek with two or 
three other little girls about my own age, gathering shells 
and stones. I gave a shell to one of the girls, saying, 
"Keep this till you die." With the thought of death 
came a vision. I was standing at the entrance of a long, 
long archway or tunnel ; in the far away distance a dim 
light, the end of life — death. Was this vision prophetic 
of my life? I have lived longer than any of my family 
with very much poorer prospects of long life. With 
the return of spring my health improved. I went to 
Church and Sunday School, where I had a class of young 
girls. I was also able to attend with young friends so- 
cial entertainments, parties, picnics, etc. The Camp 
Meetings in the groves — God's first temples — are remem- 
bered with pleasure, one in childhood, the camp meeting 

62 



at Bethesda, where we stayed over night, and the rain 
came down in torrents on the canvas tent. But the Duck 
Creek Camp Meetings of later years are more distinctly 
remembered. It was a popular place and well attended. 
I remember one time when nearing the grounds and 
joining the large procession of carriages and other ve- 
hicles, my Father remarked, "It is like going up to Je- 
rusalem." The location was beautiful and the services 
interesting, sermons were preached by the most noted 
ministers, and no doubt much good was accomplished. 
On one occasion the text was literally and instantly 
obeyed. As the people assembled for the sermon, there 
were indications of an approaching storm. When the 
minister read the text, "Go thy way for this time," the 
rain began to fall, the congregation dispersed, each going 
his way. 

One summer my Father took me with two cousins 
on a trip to Indiana to visit Aunt Snow, Father's sister. 
We went in our carriage, a day's journey, stopping at a 
tavern for our dinner. The week's visit was full of 
enjoyment. My Aunt had a dairy farm and an abund- 
ance of fruit. 

The year after Sister Cynthia's marriage, in 1842, 
the first great sorrow came into the home in the death 
of brother James, my eldest brother, in early manhood, 
only twenty-two years and a few months old. But he 
had made for himself a name and a record in usefulness 
in Church and Sunday School work. A few years later, 
in 1847, dear brother Edwin, only thirteen years old, left 
us to go to Heaven, as he said. A beautiful boy he was, 
and a favorite in the neighborhood. These were crush- 
ing sorrows, for we suffer most, I think, in the first 

63 



great sorrow before we have learned what it is to suffer 
and to be healed, to despair and to have recovered hope. 
In the autumn of 1847 Dr. Morrill, through busi- 
ness arrangements removed to New York, this being the 
first real separation from my sister. They boarded for 
a time in New York, and then moved to Brooklyn. 
After they became settled in their home, I made them a 
visit in the spring of 185 1. I left home Monday morn- 
ing, April 14th, brother Cyrus taking me to the city in 
our carriage. There I met Mrs. Susannah Morrill, 
mother of Dr. Morrill, who was to accompany me to 
Brooklyn. We took the steamboat "Clipper No. 2," 
Captain Deval in charge of the boat. The trip up the 
river was very enjoyable. We passed many historic 
places, Blennerhasset Island perhaps the most noted, near 
Parkersburg, where I am now living. We reached 
Wheeling Wednesday noon. Here we met Dr. Morrill, 
who had gone to Wheeling on business, and had his com- 
pany the rest of the way. When passing Wellsville, I 
remembered that my Father's family, 'with several other 
families from Vermont, embarked here in flat boats for 
Cincinnati, their destination. (Now a little more than a 
century ago.) We reached Pittsburg early Thursday 
morning, had breakfast at the Monongahela House, and 
then took the canal boat for Johnstown at the foot of the 
mountains. This part of the journey was very inter- 
esting, the scenery beautifully varied. From Johnstown 
we crossed over the mountains by inclined planes, five 
up and five down. The mountain scenery was grand. 
From Hollidaysburg we journeyed to Harrisburg, thence 
to Philadelphia, arriving here Saturday morning, rode 
through Chestnut Street, a beautiful street, and saw in 

64 



passing Girard College and Independence Hall. We 
crossed the Delaware River and took the train at Cam- 
den for Amboy. We fairly flew across New Jersey at 
the rate of thirty-five miles an hour ! Before we reached 
Amboy, it began to rain and our trip up to New York 
was a stormy one. We took a carriage in New York 
for my sister's residence in Brooklyn, crossing the East 
River on the ferry boat, arriving at ten o'clock Saturday 
night, having been a week on the journey. 

While in Brooklyn I enjoyed rare opportunities not 
only in sight-seeing and excursions to various resorts, 
but in hearing noted ministers, lectures and concerts. 
Dr. Morrill and my sister were members of Plymouth 
Church, and I not only had the pleasure' of hearing Mr. 
Beecher often, but of meeting him socially. I heard 
Jennie Lind sing in Castle Garden, and saw President 
Fillmore in a grand procession in New York City. 
Brother Elam was in Brooklyn at this time in business 
with Dr. Morrill, and he and I often went out together, 
visiting other churches and places of amusement. 
Toward the end of June Dr. Morrill, sister Cynthia and 
I took a trip to Boston, Salem, Danvers and Middleton. 
The day in Boston seems like a dream in fairyland. We 
visited the various places of interest in the city, then 
took a carriage and drove through the suburbs, dined at 
Brookline, and with permission drove through the 
grounds and were shown the greenhouse of Mr. Cush- 
man, an East Indian millionaire. We spent a week in 
Danvers (now Peabody) with Dr. Morrill's relatives. 
From here the Doctor returned home, and >ister Cynthia 
and I went to visit our Uncle, Dr. Phelps, our mother's 
brother, at Middleton, Mass. While here, we went to 

65 



Salem for a day's visit with relatives of our Mother. The 
old home where Grandmother Phelps was born was at 
this time occupied by the last descendant of the family, 
Uncle Benjamin Brown. The house was two hundred 
years old, but in good repair. Uncle Brown was some- 
thing of an antiquary. He showed us some rare old 
relics, among them a bureau that had come over in the 
"Mayflower." We also visited the "Marine Museum," 
the members being sea captains that had "rounded the 
Cape." Our drive through Essex Street was under an 
archway formed by the interlacing branches of the old 
elm trees by the side of the street. I went one day with 
Cousin Ruel Phelps to Andover, and saw Phillips Acad- 
emy where Dr.- Morrill had studied. After our visit at 
Middleton we returned to Brooklyn by railroad through 
Hartford and New Haven. On the trip down to Boston 
we went by water through Long Island Sound and 
around Point Judith through Narragansett' Bay to 
Providence, and so on to Fall River and Boston. 
After this most delightful trip with my sister and 
her husband, in company with my brother Elam, 
I started for home on the fifth of August, leaving New 
York for Albany on the steamer "New World." The 
scenery on the Hudson was most magnificent. We spent 
the night at the Delevan House, Albany, and left the 
next morning at seven o'clock on the New York Central 
Railroad, passing through Utica, Syracuse, and Roches- 
ter, where we saw the Genessee Falls, arriving at Buf- 
falo at eight o'clock. We stopped at the Niagara Tem- 
perance House. We spent the next day at Niagara Falls, 
crossed over into Canada in a row boat, ate our luncheon 
on the Canadian side, and left Buffalo that night at ten 

66 



o'clock on a steamer for Cleveland. Having a short time 
in Cleveland, we visited some noted places. We went 
to the top of the Weddle House and carved our names 
with many others on the balustrade. We left Cleveland 
at eleven o'clock, arriving at Columbus in the evening, 
where we spent the night with Cousin Calvin Matoon 
and wife. Early the next morning we took the Little 
Miami train for Cincinnati, reaching home about twelve 
o'clock. Thus ended one of the most remarkable trips 
of my life. 

The year following my visit East, while sister Cyn- 
thia was making her annual visit home. I was married 
to Rev. Charles H. Williams, pastor of the Methodist 
Protestant Church in Springfield, Ohio. I have no dis- 
tinct recollections of my first meeting with my future 
husband nor of my first impressions of him, so it was 
not a case of "love at first sight." Mr. Williams was 
a young minister who had but recently come into the 
Ohio Conference with a transfer from the Indiana Con- 
ference of the Methodist Protestant Church, and was 
serving a church in Cincinnati. 

The Methodist Protestant Church at that time was 
very prosperous in Cincinnati, there being three churches, 
"Old Sixth Street Church," where Dr. T. II. Stockton 
preached, a scholarly man distinguished for his elo- 
quence and for several years Chaplain of Congress; 
"George Street Church," Rev. Joel Dolby, pastor, and 
"Elm Street Church," where Mr. Williams was in 
charge. It was during Mr. Williams' pastorate at this 
church in 1849 that the cholera raged in Cincinnati the 
second time. Mr. Williams and a gentleman of his 
church went out among the poor with medicine, admin- 

67 



istering to the stricken, the sick and the dying, attend- 
ing funerals in strange places and under unusual circum- 
stances. The ministers from the city sometimes preached 
in our church at Columbia during revival meetings or 
on some special occasion, and as they were usually en- 
tertained at our house, in this way, either at the church 
or the home, I met Mr. Williams, as I did many other 
young ministers. After Mr. Williams had served the 
church at Cincinnati the regular time according to the 
itinerary system of the church, he went to New Rich- 
mond and Moscow. While he was serving these 
churches, I saw him occasionally at some special meet- 
ing or in a passing call at our house. In September, 
185 1, Mr. Williams was given charge of the church in 
Springfield. A few weeks after my return from Brook- 
lyn, he called at our house, having been to Cincinnati 
on business in connection with a book he was publish- 
ing. Some weeks later I received a letter from him, 
telling of his church work, and his studies, he having 
taken up certain branches in the Theological Depart- 
ment at Wittenburg College, and also German. At the 
close of the letter he "hoped to receive an answer." 

This was the commencement of a more intimate 
acquaintance that ended in our marriage on the 26th of 
August, 1852. It was a home wedding, with only rela- 
tives and friends in attendance. We came down the 
stairway and walked through the parlor, standing be- 
tween the back windows where dear Cynthia had stood 
when she was married. Brother Cyrus was groomsman 
and Cousin Eunice bridesmaid. We were dressed alike 
in dotted swiss, with sashes and garniture of white moire 
ribbon, in my hair white buds placed there by my sister. 

68 



Rev. W. B. Evans, our mutual friend and my old pastor, 
married us. After the ceremony and congratulations, 
refreshments were served in the dining room. It was a 
lovely moonlight evening, the young people wandered 
among the trees and shrubbery, the white dresses of the 
ladies showing in the moonlight. 

We took a little wedding trip to Springfield, return- 
ing early in the week, as sister Cynthia and brother Elam 
were to return in a few days to Brooklyn. Meanwhile 
for several weeks Mr. Williams was away, attending va- 
rious conferences, and I at home, making preparations 
for housekeeping. Mr. Williams had rented a pretty 
cottage, or rather half of one, it being divided by a hall. 
The lady, a widow, owned the house and lived with her 
young daughter on one side, a very nice arrangement for 
me, as Mr. Williams was sometimes called away and this 
gave me company in his absence. On the 26th of No- 
vember, 1852, I went out from the dear old home into 
a new life, and the next day, the 27th, into the new 
home. Before we were settled ministers came to see us. 
and my home ever since, like my Father's house, has 
been the stopping place for them. The influence of the 
old home was carried over into the new one. With our 
"Lares and Penates" a family altar was also set up and 
never abandoned while we had a home. When our sons 
were old enough, they took part in the reading of the 
Scriptures. 

I felt for a time rather strange in my new home, 
having never before been entirely among strangers, but 
the people were kind, and I soon became interested in 
the work of the church. The congregation was wor- 
shiping temporarily in the City Hall, the old church hav- 

69 



ing been sold and a new one under construction. When 
the lecture room was finished, services were held in it, 
and a Sunday School organized. Mr. Williams was a 
good organizer and also a good preacher. His sermons 
were not at all sensational, but earnest appeals to the 
conscience and reason, never to the emotions. He was 
very successful in the ministry, and wherever he went 
the church grew and prospered under his ministry. While 
in Springfield Mr. Williams was interested not only in 
religious work, but also in educational. The Public 
School system was organized and Mr. Williams made 
President of the Board of Education. 

The Bible cause and Temperance work received at- 
tention. We had the pleasure that winter of attending 
some interesting lectures by Fred. Douglas, John B. Gough 
and others ; also concerts, one by the famous Hutchinson 
Family. One evening we went to see the dramatization 
of Mrs. Stowe's famous book, then in the height of its 
popularity, "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I had some consci- 
entious scruples about going, but as the minister himself 
invited me, I consented. I did not have a very exalted 
opinion of theatres, and thought as a minister's wife I 
ought to set a good example. I do not condemn the 
drama in toto. I suppose some plays contain instructive 
lessons. I heard a gentleman say that the best temper- 
ance lecture he ever heard was on the stage, one of the 
characters a dissipated man with delirium tremens. In 
my girlhood I read Mrs. Wesley's rule for amusements ; 
it was this : "Whatever weakens your reason, impairs 
the tenderness of your conscience, obscures your sense 
of God, or takes the relish from spiritual things, in short, 
whatever increases the strength of your body over your 

70 



mind, that is sin to you, however innocent it may be in 
itself." At this time there was no Opera House in 
Springfield, and all entertainments were held in the 
City Hall. It stood on the site now occupied by the 
Arcade Hotel and Post Office. 

In the month of roses, June 29, 1853, a little rose- 
bud was given to us, an embodiment of wondrous possi- 
bilities of future growth. Never before was there such 
a baby as "our baby" — though I have seen several since. 
Mothers know what a wealth of joy and love come with 
the baby into the home. On the nth of December, after 
the morning sermon, "our baby" was baptized by the 
Rev. Mr. Smith, Charles Langdon, for his father and my 
family, but the pet name was "Charlie," and so it has 
been always. As he was the baby of the church and 
behaved so well on his first appearance, he was often 
taken to church and as a rule conducted himself with 
propriety. However, one time, when he was three years 
old, he slipped away from my side and walked up the 
aisle as if intending to go into the pulpit to take part 
in the services, but happening to see some hymn books 
scattered about on the front seat, stopped to arrange 
them in regular order. At this point I interfered, and 
taking him by the hand, as the services were nearly done, 
led him out, and we went home. When a little older 
he sometimes went to church with his father, and on 
returning home could give one a oretty good accounl oi 
the services, surprising in a child so young. A year 
after the birth of our baby, we moved to a more com- 
modious house on Pleasant Street, and here we lived 
during our sojourn in Springfield at this time. While 
living here Charlie was seriously ill. there was but little 

71 



hope of his recovery, and he our only child. The days 
and nights of anguish will never be forgotten. When 
four years old he gave me his first present, a plaster of 
I 'iris dove of bright colors he had bought for five 
cents from a man selling toys in the street. He brought 
it to me hidden in his clothes, to surprise me. Some 
years later my health being very poor I went to the 
old home and while here a daughter was born, Septem- 
ber 2d, 1857, a frail little flower that perished before 
the end of the month. It cost me many a pang to give 
my baby up, but I have found consolation in the thought 
that a part of my own life is in Heaven. Jesus said, 
"Suffer the little children to come unto Me." 

Our next home was in Indianapolis, Indiana. We 
moved here in the spring of 1859. This removal was 
mostly for business considerations. Mr. Williams had 
become discouraged with the small and uncertain sala- 
ries given at that time to Methodist ministers, and at 
the solicitation of Sumner & Co., proprietors and man- 
agers of the Wheeler & Wilson Sewing Machine Co., 
took charge of their office in Indianapolis. He was very 
successful, enlarging the business and opening offices in 
other towns. Mr. Williams was still connected with the 
Ohio Conference and frequently preached in some town 
near Indianapolis, especially Morristown, among old 
friends of former years when he was a member of the 
Indiana Conference. Mr. Williams's mother lived near 
Terre Haute, and visited us while we were here. His 
father had been dead many years. He was also a min- 
ister in the Methodist Protestant Church. The years 
spent in Indianapolis were very pleasant ones. We 
usually attended the Congregational Church, as there 

72 



was no P. M. Church in the city at that time, and in this 
church we made many interesting acquaintances. Mr. 
Williams and several other gentlemen formed themselves 
into a literary association entitled. "The Irving Asso- 
ciation," and through the efforts of this organization we 
enjoyed that winter the rare privilege of hearing lectures 
by many distinguished persons — Bayard Taylor, Henry 
J. Raymond, Mrs. Gogue, Grace Greenwood, Lola Mon- 
tes and others, also a course of lectures on Geology, illus- 
trated with maps and charts, by Prof. Boynton of New 
York. Charlie was now six years old and went with us 
everywhere, to church and church socials, as well as to 
all the lectures. I taught him at home to read and spell, 
and read stories to him. Sometimes we would go to 
the office and spend the day. Charlie showed at this 
early age a mechanical skill. He could take apart a 
Wheeler & Wilson sewing machine and put it together 
again correctly in every detail. We lived in a comfort- 
able home across the canal, near the old Fair Grounds, 
with a pretty yard shaded by a large locust tree, a 
garden in the rear. While living here our second sun 
came, August 13, i860, to gladden our hearts after the 
loss of our babe. He was a delicate child and gave me 
anxious days and nights for fear he too would leave us. 
His delicate health made him dependent and he grew 
very near me, so that from childhood to manhood we 
have been very close friends. We named him Edwin 
Morrill for my brother Edwin and Dr. Morrill, whom 
I loved as a brother. 

At this time dark clouds were hanging over my 
dear sister's home. Her health had not been good for 
two or three years and was now rapidly declining. With 

73 



two little children and mountains of snow between, I 
could not go to her, and she passed away on the 9th of 
January, 1861, leaving sweet memories, but an empty 
place in my life that has never been filled. 

Rumors of war and secession that had filled the air 
for months came to a climax when the first gun of the 
war was fired at half past four o'clock Friday morning, 
April 12, 1861, on Fort Sumter. The effect was elec- 
trical. The war spirit swept over the country like wild 
fire. Party lines vanished. The Union men of the 
South were borne into secession while the Republican 
and Democrats at the North combined to support the 
government. President Lincoln issued a requisition for 
seventy-five thousand troops. It was responded to by 
three hundred thousand volunteers. A camp was es- 
tablished in the Old Fair Grounds near our home. The 
men were unprepared, no provision having yet been 
made by the government. The families around assisted 
with bedding, clothing, etc. These were indeed troub- 
lous times — the future darkened by uncertainty and dis- 
trust. Business was depressed. In the autumn Mr. 
Williams gave up the office, we stored our household 
goods, and I went with my two children to my Father's, 
Mr. Williams in the meantime devoting himself to busi- 
ness on week days, and preaching on Sundays wher- 
ever his services were needed. He, with two other gen- 
tlemen, had purchased a stock of queensware from a 
man retiring from the business, and opened a store in 
Cincinnati. But when there was a call for "The hun- 
dred days men," Mr. Williams left the business in the 
care of his partners, and joined the regiment formed 
of business men in Cincinnati and vicinity, among them 

74 



many teachers from the schools. Mr. Williams went 
with the company from Linwood as a soldier, but was 
chosen by the Regiment as their Chaplain. He also 
served as Postmaster. The Regiment was the 138th 
Ohio Volunteer National Guard. They were not called 
to active service in the field, but their business was to 
guard Forts, army stores, etc. They were mostly sta- 
tioned in Virginia and Maryland and along Chesapeake 
Bay. Sometimes they were not far from a battle ground, 
the shells coming dangerously near. This was in the 
summer of 1864. 

All this time I was still at my Father's. In the old 
home sad changes had taken place. My Mother died 
the year previous, September 11, 1863, and brother 
Cyrus February 1, 1864. Brother Henry was in the 
army as surgeon in the 79th Regiment Ohio Volunteer 
Infantry. These were trying times. My heart ached for 
my Father, and I had my own sorrows, the home so 
lonely without my Mother, and brother Cyrus gone, my 
comrade of many years. In September brother John 
gave up his farm in Clinton County, and came home to 
live with Father and to manage the farming interests. 
At the completion of the hundred days' service the Regi- 
ment was disbanded and Mr. Williams returned home. 
Early in November we again went into a home of our 
own, a house on Kemper Lane, Walnut Hills, Cincin- 
nati, that had been purchased the year previous. The 
lot was a large one with shrubbery and ornamental trees 
in the front, in the back yard a variety of fruit trees, 
a driveway at the side to the barn in the rear. The house 
was on a very pleasant street ; it was good sized and 
comfortable, stone color, with green shutters, a veranda 

across the front. 

75 



Here one bright Sunday morning our youngest son 
was born, a mite of a baby, but a well-spring of joy in 
the house that long cold winter so full of sorrow and 
distress in the outside world. Every day there were re- 
ports of dreadful battles and the fate of the country 
was hanging in the balance. Brother Henry was in an 
alien country marching with Sherman to the sea. In 
my affection and solicitude for this dear brother, I gave 
my baby his name, Henry Archer, and in later years in 
certain characteristics and personalities of my son I am 
reminded of my brother. 

In the spring, after the long dire winter, came uni- 
versal rejoicing over the return of peace. Lee surrend- 
ered to Grant on the 9th of April — the Peace Jubilee was 
on the 14th. I remember well the bright day so full 
of sunshine and rejoicing, and next on hearing of the 
assassination of President Lincoln, a day of mourning 
throughout the land. Public buildings and houses were 
draped in black, even engines and cars. In most cities 
and towns funeral orations were pronounced on the day 
of the funeral, the 19th of April. Mr. Williams, by re- 
quest, addressed a crowded house in the City Hall in 
Columbus. 

When Henry was three years old he met with a se- 
rious accident. He was at the big gate at the driveway 
with another boy when the hinges gave way and the 
gate fell on them. The other boy was not much hurt, 
but Henry's hip was dislocated. He suffered terribly. 
We sent for Dr. Kyte, near by, and for brother Henry. 
The doctors met, and after a careful examination they 
found no broken bones, but did not discover the seat of 
the trouble. This was Thursday, and not till Sunday 

76 



was the dislocation discovered. Nearly all this time the 
child's sufferings were great. When brother Henry saw 
what the trouble was, with a skilled hand the bone was 
in place in a moment. The happiness of the child in 
the freedom from pain was touching. In the joy so 
manifest, we realized more than ever what he must have 
suffered. The incident made him quite a little "lion" 
on the Hill, attentions were showered on him by the 
neighbors and friends. The four years spent on Walnut 
Hills were pleasant years. My time was taken up with 
my children. My tastes being domestic, my home had 
the preference. Charlie attended school. Edwin and 
Henry were playmates at home, and they had a happy 
time together. As we were not far from the old home. 
Father came often to see us, also my brothers and their 
families. All were now married, John and Elam living 
on the home place, Henry practicing medicine in Co- 
lumbia. 

Tn 1868 Mr. Williams received a call from a church 
in Somonauk, Illinois, a Methodist Protestant church in 
the Illinois Conference. He decided to accept the call, 
and disposed of his interests in the store to his partners. 
He went out in the autumn, leaving us on Walnut 1 Tills 
for the winter. The days and weeks were full, two 
children (Edwin and Henry) sick with whooping-cough 
and chicken-pox. added to the cares of the home. In 
the spring we rented the house and turned our faces 
westward. Charlie remained behind with his Uncle 
Henry, as he was attending Woodward High School, 
there being no school of that grade in Somonauk. We 
lived in a rambling old house infested with rats, but 
the lot was large, with an abundance of fruit and a 



good garden, — a lovely, quiet house. Charlie came out 
at vacation for the summer and the children had a happy 
time together. Charlie amused himself part of the time 
by inventing devices for capturing the rats. One night 
we were startled by a loud noise from the "lumber- 
room" where a large trunk under which he had put a 
"figure four" trap came down with a crash. The church 
was in a fairly good condition ; there was a Sunday 
School of which Mr. Williams was the Superintendent 
and I had a class of young girls. We had, as usual, a 
good deal of company, and as it was so difficult to get 
help, they were busy days with me. Father and brother 
Elam came out during the summer. Father remained 
and went with Mr. Williams to the Conference in 
Princeton in September. The vast prairies around So- 
monauk made me at times long for a sight of the Ohio 
hills. But our stay here was not long. At the fall Con- 
ference, 1868, Mr. Williams received a unanimous call 
to the church at Princeton, a much more desirable place 
in which to live. There was a fine High School, and so 
we could now have Charlie with us. That was a great 
consideration. The church was but recently built, the 
membership being good, and the Sunday School most 
excellent. 

Mr. Williams was very successful in the work of 
the church. The first winter there was a revival and 
many were added to the church. Not being able to get 
a house till spring, we took for the winter a suite of 
rooms in the second floor of a business house. During 
this winter I suffered terribly with inflammation of the 
right eye, caused by the cold winds, it was thought. It 
was feared that I would lose my eve. In the meantime 



Henry had scarlet fever, a severe case. Revival meet- 
ings were going on all the time, Mr. Williams being en- 
gaged in these meetings and with the visiting ministers 
who often came to his study and lunched with us, Mr. 
Williams attending to the culinary department while I 
was disabled on account of my affliction. There may 
sometimes have been a mishap in the style of cooking, 
but the brethren pronounced the coffee an unfailing suc- 
cess. One of them had the charity to say, "I know of 
no one, myself excepted, that can make as good coffee 
as Brother Williams." One day the Doctor left two 
bottles of medicine for Henry, one a liniment for exter- 
nal application at the throat, the other to take inwardly. 
It was time for the medicine. The bottles were alike 
and had been placed together on the bureau. I took 
up the liniment and gave him a dose, but in a moment 
from the odor I knew my mistake. An antidote was 
given at once, and there were no serious results, but we 
had a fright. The liniment contained the deadly oil of 
hemlock. One evening the Hotel across the street from 
us took fire, the wind blew the sparks over and around 
our building. The two little boys were in their bed and 
watched the sparks as they flew over the skylight. Mr. 
Williams had gone to help at the burning building. I 
gathered in a basket some valued treasures and waited 
results. There was a variety of opinions whether the 
flames would reach our building or not. The prairie 
winds are a strong force to contend with. Happily we 
escaped with only a scare. In the spring we moved into 
the Matson house near the church, a comfortable home. 
That summer Charlie came out and entered the High 
School in September, finishing the course he had begun 

79 



at Woodward in Cincinnati. After graduation he em- 
ployed himself in a music store. I look back to the 
years spent in Princeton as among the pleasantest of 
my life. If I ever did any good in Christian work, if 
I have ever been the means of helping any one to a bet- 
ter life, it seems to me I had that blessed privilege in 
Princeton. The large Bible class of young ladies which 
I taught I hope to meet in Heaven. 

While we were in Princeton the General Confer- 
ence of the Methodist Protestant Church elected Mr. 
Williams* Corresponding Secretary of the "Board of 
Missions." This appointment made a removal necessary, 
so as to be more centrally located with respect to the 
work extending over the various districts of the entire 
Conferences of the church, and to give better opportu- 
nities for our sons in education. Springfield was chosen. 
In October, 187 1, we returned to our old home, where we 
had started life together. We went back to the old 
church relations, renewed old acquaintances, though time 
had made changes. Our sons resumed their studies. 
Charlie went for a time to Oberlin College to take up 
a certain line of study. Edwin and Henry entered the 
Public Schools. Edwin attended school in Princeton, 
but Henry's school days began in Springfield. They 
were taught at home to read and spell, and consequently 
could enter a higher grade and make rapid progress in 
studies. 

After a time, having difficulty in finding a suitable 
house, we bought a large lot on Clifton Street, and built 
a good-sized brick house. Here we lived for several 
years all together, until our sons had finished their edu- 
cation and engaged in business. From boyhood Charlie 

80 



had shown a scientific and inventive genius; he became 
interested in telegraphy and the railroad business, and 
served as Train Dispatcher, Superintendent, etc. Later 
he has engaged in building railroads and electric lines, 
and has had other interests in connection with an elec- 
trical invention. After leaving the Public School, Edwin 
took lessons from a private teacher in languages and 
other studies. His attention was turned to stenography 
as an interesting study, and since he has made Court 
Reporting a successful business. 

Edwin has also given some attention to vocal and 
instrumental music. He is naturally fond of music. We 
tell him he began to play when he was nine months old. 
We had a melodeon and I would let him run his fingers 
over the keys. At the sound he would be in an ecstasy 
of delight. 

Henry graduated from the High School with hon- 
ors at the age of sixteen, and then entered Wittenburg 
College, taking the full course. He was an honor grad- 
uate, his oration pronounced a masterpiece. His liter- 
ary efforts were always well received, and he never at 
any time required assistance with his compositions. In 
boyhood he excited surprise by the use of unusual words 
and because of his large vocabulary. His orations in 
the High School and in later years were as new to me 
as to others. He chose his subjects and wrote them in- 
dependent of any help at home. He edited for a time 
the' College paper. Soon after Henry left College he 
commenced the study of Law in an office in Springfield. 
While engaged in this study a position was offered him 
as Executive Clerk in Governor Foraker's office in 
Columbus. After the Governor's term of office had ex- 

81 



pired Henry commenced the practice of his profession, 
having in the meantime been admitted to the Bar. In 
later years in addition to his legal business he has given 
considerable time to politics in both State and national 
affairs. 

In a few years these sons went ont to make homes 
for themselves, leaving behind a lonesome home with 
sweet memories of their young lives. Charlie married 
Miss Ida Stoner, of Princeton, a schoolmate. They 
went to housekeeping in Parkersburg, West Virginia, 
and had but one child, a daughter. Edwin married Miss 
Delia Dungan, of Franklin, Indiana. They have four 
children, two sons and two (laughters. They went to 
housekeeping in Detroit, Michigan, where Edwin was 
in business at the time. Later they moved to Louisville, 
Kentucky, and are now living in Los Angeles, Califor- 
nia. Henry married Miss Elizabeth Thomas, a school 
friend, in Springfield ; they have three little boys, and 
have always lived in Columbus. My sons married hap- 
pily, and their wives I took to my heart as daughters ; 
they are noble women, good home makers, and yet with 
the care of home and children they find time for self- 
improvement and culture, and the amenities of social 
life. These new ties have strengthened the bands of 
affection, and in my children's children, as I did in my 
own children, I live my life again. 

The years Mr. Williams was in the Missionary 
work, in addition to his extensive travels over the va- 
rious districts, he edited and published a monthly paper 
in the interests of missionary work, "The Missionary 
Record." His health had not been good for several 
years, but being ambitious, he still kept on with the 

82 



mission work, but finally he had to give it up and later 
all work except our own special business. Mr. Will- 
iams being' unusually feeble and we alone in the home, 
the children at Columbus, Henry and Elizabeth invited 
us to spend the winter with them (1893-94). We went 
a few days before Christmas and were having a pleas- 
ant winter, Air. Williams being in comfortable health, 
when early in March we received a message that Ida. 
Charlie's wife, was critically ill. A little later a tele- 
gram arrived saying for us to come at once. We left 
immediately for Parkersburg (their home), arriving but 
a short time before she passed away, March 6, 1894. In 
a few days Mr. Williams was taken with pneumonia, 
and died sixteen days after Ida's death. Tins double 
bereavement was a great shock to us all. With my 
husband's death my home, too, passed away. I could 
not live alone in the home, and, besides, Charlie and 
Bessie, the little motherless daughter, needed me in the 
home so desolate without dear Ida. So the old home 
was dismantled of our possessions and rented to a min- 
ister who preached in a church across the street. But 
the old associations were left behind. 

It is fourteen years since I came to Parkersburg, 
looking back through the heart experiences a long, long 
time. It is a severe trial in old age to leave home and 
old associations to begin a new life among strangers 
and under different conditions, but my life is not ex- 
ceptional — these vicissitudes come to all in a certain de- 
gree. Our lives are laid in the loom of time; only Cod 
knows the pattern; the threads to be interwoven are 
light and dark, joy and sorrow, and these are needed 
to bring out the pattern. In my new borne 1 have 

S3 



found pleasant acquaintances and made some close 
friendships, I enjoy religions and social privileges, my 
son and his daughter, now grown to womanhood, are 
very kind to me, and with them I have a pleasant home. 
I live by choice a secluded life enlivened by books, cor- 
respondence and visits. I have been in the habit of mak- 
ing an annual round of visits to my absent sons and their 
families, and to the friends who still remain at the old 
home place. Last summer I spent several delightful 
weeks with Henry's family at their cottage at Pointe 
aux Pines, Bois Blanc Island, near the Straits of Mack- 
inac. It was a primitive place, but picturesque, the cot- 
tage in the midst of trees and wild flowers, the bay in 
view ; and on a clear calm day, the blue water dotted 
with sail boats, and all bathed in sunshine, it was a 
lovely sight. These trips and visits serve to give a 
pleasant change to my quiet life. I have many blessings 
that call for daily thanksgiving — comfortable health, so 
few of the infirmities of age, ability and opportunity to 
gratify my taste for reading — books are choice friends, 
with them I am never lonely — and also the enjoyment 
of the manifold beauties of Nature, the source of both 
pleasure and consolation. 

"Nature * * * * can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us or disturb 
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings." 

si 



Jn the meantime in all these years changes have 
been going on in the dear old home, our birthplace. 
Father, Henry, John and Elam — all are gone. Nothing 
is left but the sweet memories of those happy years. In 
contemplating the past I see mistakes and causes for 
regrets but mainly they were due to ignorance and in- 
experience and the force of circumstances. The itiner- 
ant system of the Methodist church, the changing life, 
may have its advantages, but it has its disadvantages 
also, especially in the home life. It takes much out of 
the lives of children ; they do not form strong attach- 
ments to the birthplace ; and it is as trying to children 
to go among strangers as it is to grown people. The 
evening we arrived at Springfield from Princeton, I 
remember Henry sadly saying, "I don't know anybody 
here." Children have a little world of their own and 
we do not always realize their feelings nor what they 
suffer mentally. 

We say, "happy childhood." but is it always so? 
( )nly a few days ago I read something that impressed 
me. 

Mr. Rarey, the famous horse tamer, tells us that he 
has known an angry word to raise the pulse of a horse 
ten beats a minute. Think how it must affect a child. 
Grown people in a sense can care for themselves, but 
children are at the mercy of those around them. If I 
could live my life over, I am sure I could improve on 
past experience. 

In spite of removals we had a happy life. It is 
the family life that makes the real home, and this is 
not dependent on place or circumstance. 



85 



"Outside fall the snowflakes lightly. 
Through the night loud roars the storm, 
In the home the fire burns brightly, 
And 'tis cosy, silent, warm." 

The true pleasures of home are not without, but 
within, and so with husband and children my home 
was next to heaven. And there are pleasant home pic- 
tures, of evenings with my little sons, their funny do- 
ings and sayings, plays, games, story-telling, readings, 
studies, etc. The walks on pleasant days, the rides with 
their father into the country to visit families of the 
church and congregation, all these are pleasant memo- 
ries to recall. The years between the setting up of the 
new home and the breaking up of the old, are the 
sweetest of my life. But the years were not all sun- 
shine — there was an admixture of light and shade, sad 
experiences to live through and trials to meet and over- 
come. We had a great deal of company, mostly min- 
isters, the best of company. Our sons were fond of 
going into their father's study to listen to conversations 
enlivened with humor and adventure as well as to dis- 
cussions on theology. The latter evidently fell on "stony 
ground," as they have never shown any special inter- 
est in theological subjects, unless I except Edwin. He 
has, as his grandfather said of him, "an enquiring mind" 
and has delved deep into religious subjects, studied di- 
vers religions. The result has been to make him a good 
man with broad Christian charity and a reverence for 
Divine Truth divested of all ecclesiasticism and dogma. 
The other two sons under these religious influences have 
lived pure, good lives, have become members of the 
church and served it in various ways as their services 

86 



seemed needed or circumstances required. From in- 
fancy to manhood these sons have been my close com- 
panions, their interests were mine also, and I have their 
perfect confidence. They are not perfect men, — per- 
fection is not found in human nature — but they have 
never given me cause for real sorrow or humiliation. 
Whatever they have accomplished in business, the credit 
is due to themselves, as they have never had financial 
or influential support except as their abilities became 
known and recognized. 

There are sweet memories connected with all the 
homes where we have lived. But I think my sons will 
look back to the home on Clifton street, where we lived 
longer than at any other place, as the real home, and 
the years spent there together will be held in sweet re- 
membrance. 

I have related some of the events and circumstances 
of my life, the visible manifestations of the undercur- 
rent. Our lives are two-fold: the inner life sustaining 
the sorrows, disappointments, heartaches, nights of 
anguish over sick beds and bereavements, and also the 
joys of life, its pleasures, the days of heaven on earth, 
the resting in green pastures and beside still waters. 
Who can tell the secrets of this intimate life at the heart 
of our being known only to God and ourselves? The 
philosopher tells us that not an atom in creation touches 
another atom. They only approach at a certain distance, 
then the attraction ceases and an invisible something re- 
pels — they only seem to touch, — so in life no soul touches 
another soul except at one or two points, and these 
chiefly external,- — a fearful and lonely thought, but one 
of the truest in life. In the central deeps of our being 

we are alone. 

87 



In my girlhood with two young friends I visited a 
Picture Gallery in Cincinnati. The walls were lined 
with pictures. I remember but three or four. One of 
them Cole's famous paintings, a series of four large pic- 
tures : "Infancy," "Youth," "Manhood," and "Old Age," 
all symbolizing "The Voyage of Life." Infancy, a child in 
a boat floating down the stream, the guardian angel at 
the prow, the most beautiful flowers everywhere along 
the banks, under the trees and twining around them. 
Youth, in the boat sailing towards the "Castle in the 
Air," the guardian angel on the bank, flowers in pro- 
fusion, but no so many. Manhood, standing erect, man- 
aging the boat himself, flowers, but still fewer, more 
of the sternness of life represented. Old Age, lying in 
the bottom of the boat, drifting helplessly -towards the 
precipice, no flowers, barren rocks along the stream, — 
a cheerless picture. I have passed through all these 
stages of life and am now in "Old Age," but my ex- 
perience does not agree with the picture. It is true — 

"Old age is still old age; 

It is not strength, but weakness, 

It is the waning, not the crescent moon, 

The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon." 

However, I find flowers along my pathway, a lov- 
ing word, a friendly call, messages and sweet remem- 
brances from absent friends, and the unutterable love 
and kindness of my three sons and of their wives and 
their children are the glory and crown of my old age. 
Hopefully and trustingly looking to the future, I com- 
mit myself to the care of my Heavenly Father, whom 
I have endeavored to serve and honor all these years. 

88 



RD 



5* * 



"I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise; 
I only know that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 
I know not where His islands lift 

Their fronded palms in air; 
I only know I cannot drift 

Beyond His love and care." 



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